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A Miracles/Supernatural Cross-over by Heather L. Summary: Dean is brooding. Paul wants to help him cheer up. Word Count: 6,770 Rating: Adult17+ for graphic sexual situations between two men and bad language. Beta Thanks: Laurel (Sailorhathor) Disclaimer: Dean and Sam are not mine. If they were I would not have time to write anything. They belong to the WB/CW, its respective enterprises, and most of all, Eric Kripke. Paul does not belong to me, either. He belongs to Richard Hatem, Spyglass, Touchstone, Disney, and all its respective enterprises. But I think he owes me one. Or two. Especially when those DVD royalties started rolling in. ((Bwahahaha! Preach it sister! - Laurel)) Author's Notes: This 'verse? It's Laurel's 'verse. I just play in it. This is an Alternate Universe sequel to her story, "Fate is an Engineer," which is pretty much an AU in itself. This story also makes reference to events from "FiaE: The Lost Scenes" and "A Distant Voice in the Darkness." ((Heather asked for someone to give her a story challenge and Laurel gave her one, in the form of Dean/Paul and phone sex. Viola! A much expanded, dirty plot bunny was born.)) Dean Winchester was brooding. Sam mulled that over once more in his mind. Dean fucking Winchester was brooding. Fuck that. If anyone in the Winchester family was to brood, it sure as hell wasn't Dean. That was Sam's job. And he wasn't going to sit back and let Dean take his job from him without a fight. Dean had been increasingly moody and agitated since they left New England. Hardly anything seemed to sway him anymore. The hunt, yes. Always the hunt. Sammy, yes... there was always Sammy. But little pieces of Dean had gone missing. Left in New England, maybe (Sam thought that leaving things sounded more poetic when in San Francisco...). Sam had tried to bring Dean out of his funk using every dirty trick he could think of. He didn't know whether to be more offended than concerned when his seemingly ingenius trick of running over an Iron Maiden tape with the Impala elicited no more than a empty glance from Dean. He couldn't help but to think back on all he had seen and thought he had seen in Boston. All they learned. Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked over at Dean, who was lying in bed and staring up at the plaster on the ceiling. He was still damp from a shower (a shower that had lasted way too long, in Sam's opinion) and had barely managed to pull on some jeans before plopping down on the creaky motel bed to proceed with Round 37 of "What's That Stain on the Ceiling?" Fuck this. Sam could not stand one more minute with broody!Dean. He needed some fresh air. And there is no better place to get some fresh air than Florida in the winter, so he pulled on a hoodie, told Dean he was leaving (to which Dean responded with a, "Be careful. Take a weapon. Don't take the Impala." Ever Sam's protector. Ever Sam's big brother), and walked out into the sunshine. Dean continued to stare at the ceiling even after he heard the motel door slam. He knew something was wrong. He even had an idea what was wrong, but the processes needed to form the fleeting feelings into one coherent thought were irritatingly absent. There were just images in his head dancing around like raindrops on a pool of water. A moment or two when he could feel the touch of someone who wasn't there. Hazy sounds in his ears... desperate noises, pleading sounds. He wasn't used to an inner conflict that didn't involve Sammy. Or Dad. Somehow when they were part of the equation, it seemed easier to handle. Like it was necessary. Relevant. His own turmoil had been drowned out years ago and he found comfort in the avoidance that solving Sammy's problems, Dad's problems, or even some random stranger's problems brought him. He was far too out of practice on his own psyche to recognize where the pain lay inside him. All he knew was along with the pain, these thoughts brought one feeling Dean knew all too well how to handle: Dean Winchester, however far down in his funk, was also incredibly turned on. He had been walking around half-hard since they left Boston and it was getting increasingly difficult to hide from Sammy. Sammy had no idea of the events that took place while he was missing and recovering, and Dean had no plans to tell him anything about it. He was momentarily glad Sammy had stepped out. He was alone and could at least put a temporary stop to one of his problems, but when that thought was replaced by what he would be imagining, it made him stop short. Fuck this. He needed coffee. He pulled on a grey shirt and his jacket and thanked God that with Florida's abundance of old people came an abundance of coffee joints on every block. Paul Callan was brooding. It wasn't like Keel to notice, except that today, Paul was most definitely not doing what he had asked him to do. Paul Callan was brooding AND shirking responsibility. Bloody Hell. Keel was not the type of man to sit back and watch when there was work to be done and people not doing it. He cursed to himself in about three different languages before he stepped out of his office and made himself very dominant in Paul's space. Paul was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the Scotsman stepping up behind him. He looked to the outsider to be staring at a very interesting patch of wall, but far more interesting was what he wished to be doing against that wall and to whom he wished to do it. He entertained thoughts of being slammed up against the wall and having his brains fucked out. He thought of having his lifeforce sucked out of him through his dick. Which, by the way, was currently doing things in a semi-public place that it should definitely not be doing. Train of thought? So not right for the office. Wasn't there something he was supposed to be doing? Damn... think hard... Hard... OK, also not helping. Paul's thoughts were consumed by visions of looking up at that angelic face and hearing his own name moaned over and over again... "Oh, God, Paaaaul. Don't stop... FUCK... Paul!" "Paul... Paul... Paul?" He was knocked out of his daydream when he realized the voice he heard calling his name was in the real world and was most decidedly Keel jostling him and sounding slightly, no, majorly irritated. "Paul. Are you with me today? You have been staring at that patch of wall now for 20 minutes. Are the tasks I have given you too difficult?" Slightly wounded at that remark, Paul straightened up and began a hastily prepared excuse. Which was promptly interrupted by Keel. "Paul. I can't use you like this. You have been off since the whole ordeal with the Winchesters, and Evelyn and I have already given up our attempts to get you to open up about it, but I need you to start firing on all cylinders here. All the signs recently-" This time it was Paul who cut Keel off. Another lecture from Keel about "the signs" and "research," while a surefire way to alleve Paul of his arousal, was not something he wished to endure today. "Keel. I'm sorry. Really. But I need a day or two to recuperate. You said it yourself. I am no good to you like this. Let me have a day or two. Please." He was politely begging Keel, which reminded him of a more impassioned plea he had received once... from - "Paul. Go home. Work out whatever this is. Come back to me at full strength. I need you." "Thanks, Keel," he said. "Damn you for interrupting that thought," he didn't say. Keel stared at Paul. If he was so insistent on leaving, then why wasn't he up and making a move for the door? Instead, Paul's gaze wandered about the room frantically before settling on a point hidden underneath the desk. Paul should have been out the door by that point. He was halfway there... he was definitely up. But for obvious reasons (way, way too obvious reasons), he stayed glued to his seat, frantically gazing about the room for an excuse to keep parts of him hidden. He finally gazed past the offending area to a spot on the floor and dived underneath the desk to retrieve an imaginary dropped pen. Paul searched for that pen for a full three minutes. Dean sat in his chair with his sweet, sweet coffee in one hand and a whole lot of distraction in the other. They had come to Florida at the request of their father - more coordinates via text message. Their research had dug up some weird shit - weirder than normal for Florida. One of the more famous bridges had suffered a collapse more than twenty years prior from a run-in with the eerily just-right combination of dead of night, a torrential downpour, and a rather large tanker. A new bridge had been constructed adjacent to the old and the ruins on both sides had been memorialized and made into fishing piers. However, more than twenty years of eyewitnesses claimed to see the ghostly image of a Greyhound bus driving along the ruins and ultimately plunging into the bay. That kind of standard haunting was almost beneath the brothers Winchester, but the twist was enough to pique their interest: The passenger in the back window, a young female, was the only one seemingly aware of the living. She waved at them with a twisted smile on her face as the apparition plummeted to its demise. "Poltergeist?" Sammy had asked. "I'm thinking. She could have caused the whole accident to begin with. We gotta find out who was on the bus that night. Who might have had an enemy in the spirit world." Dean had been itching for the chance to waste something since they left Boston (their hunt for the Mothman temporarily on hold due to circumstances of the John Winchester kind), and this possible poltergeist had potential. He was wound too tightly after almost losing Sammy, still not finding Dad, and of course, those niggling thoughts he had been shoving to the back of his mind about what they had learned, who he had met, what he had done... they were not helping him relax any. Even if the whole Ghostly Greyhound was a bust, Florida certainly had its share of otherworldly activity. First off, they didn't call it "Heaven's Waiting Room" for nothing. And with all the sweaty, half-naked flesh, horny college students, and the underground Goth population in Tampa, vampires and succubi abounded. And Dean remembered vague mentions of something called a Skunk Ape, which had sounded promising and waste-worthy. But right now, nothing otherworldly was holding Dean's attention. Hell. Nothing worldly was holding it, either. The girl at the coffee shop fell squarely between "bangable" and "must bang sooner rather than later" on Dean's Bang-O-Meter, and she certainly was more than willing, judging from the flirting, the looks, and the body language. Dean, however, noticed none of it. He just politely thanked her for the coffee, grabbed his cup, and walked out the door, leaving a slightly hurt and confused barista behind. The blast of cool, humid air felt good on his skin, in his lungs, but it was doing nothing for his mood. Or his erection. He sat quietly, taking in the thousand or so people walking around him. A thousand people with whom he had not shared a bed. Or a closet. Or an Impala. A thousand people who had never felt the jolt of every nerve ending sparking at hearing his name cried out in ecstacy. A thousand people who were not suddenly feeling rhythmic vibrations in their pants - Wha-? Dean was jolted out of his daydream by his phone. He pulled it out of his jeans pocket and looked at the caller ID. He couldn't believe it. Sam was smart. Even with his modesty, he could not deny it. He was smart enough to realize that no amount of begging, trickery, or brotherly ass-kicking was going to solve Dean's problem. He was smart enough to know that the last real smile that had crossed Dean's lips that was not shared with Sam was back in Boston. He was also smart enough to plan far enough ahead to give his little outing a greater purpose. Reaching into his pocket, he felt the scrap of paper on which he had written a phone number. A phone number he found stored on Dean's phone the night before as Dean slept fitfully, murmuring about, of all things, doing laundry. Sam knew this could be the only way to help Dean, who was far beyond helping himself. He also knew that by taking this step he was admitting to himself something he had been steadfastly denying. Sam was smart enough to suck it up and think of helping Dean. Paul reluctantly trudged to his car and sat in it for a long time before starting it up and heading for home. The drive was a blur for him as he wrestled with half-formed thoughts and odd feelings that seemed not to come from within him, but from all around him. The moment his brain wrapped around what exactly was happening was the same moment the phone snapped him out of his revelation. Not recognizing the number, he answered with his standard greeting. "This is Paul Callan." "Paul?" The voice was vaguely familiar. Soft, lilting midwestern tones. "Can you talk freely?" "Yes, I can," said Paul warily. "Who is this?" "Paul, this is Sam Winchester." Paul nearly dropped the phone. Recovering quickly, he asked Sam to hold on while he pulled the car over and put it in park. As he did, a thousand thoughts swam in his head. Just hearing the name Winchester was enough to quicken his pulse, but the fact that it was Sam on the other end did not bode well. Where was Dean? Why wasn't Dean the one calling? Sam and Dean were rarely separated and, in fact, it was their separation that brought Paul and Dean together in the first place... Dean... Dean... Dean was in trouble. Masking his panic, he finally spoke. "OK, Sam." "Paul, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I honestly don't know where else to turn." Sam sucked in his breath. "It's Dean." Sam heard what he swore was Paul trying to hide a sharply drawn breath. Dean! I knew it, thought Paul. "He's--there's--there's something wrong with Dean," continued Sam. If he had heard Paul's gasp at the mention of Dean's name, he hid it well. "And I am completely lost. I can't help him." "Oh, God! What happened? Vampire? Demon?" The thought of a hurt Dean nearly consumed him. "No, nothing like that! Paul, he's different. He is not Dean. It's like something has drained the Dean from him. I can't seem to bring him back. We are losing the trail on our dad - it gets colder every day - but it doesn't seem to hold the same importance for Dean anymore. He is making potentially fatal mistakes when he hunts." Sam's pitch was getting higher and higher with every sentence, and he began to talk faster. "He's actually kind of nonchalant about the hunt these days. I have watched him completely ignore perfectly willing girls... pretty ones. Girls that Dean would never ignore. The other day he washed the Impala and he treated it like a chore. I destroyed an Iron Maiden tape and he didn't even flinch! Paul, I know I don't know you very well, but you helped me a great deal, and I am asking you to help my brother. Please, Paul. I know you and..." Sam trailed off. Snap out of it, Sam! He shook his head and regained his focus. "Paul..." he began again, telling Paul his fears of losing Dean and how he needed Dean back in top shape if they were ever going to find their dad. He was barely breathing between phrases. He struggled to get the words out fast enough and tripped over his words. Waves of emotions washed over Paul as Sam spoke: relief that, while still hurt, Dean was physically safe. For the moment. Shock that his assumption had been correct: He had been feeding off Dean. Dean's mood has been greatly affecting his own. But for how long? The empathic connection was still there and it was strong. Paul hadn't noticed because he had been feeling the same way... and the elation Paul felt at hearing Sam's request for help quickly vanished as a new emotion surfaced. Paul could feel just how hard it was for Sam to come to him. In an instant it hit him: Sam knew. The feeling was drowning out Sam's voice. He could also feel how adamant Sam was that calling upon Paul for help was the only way... resignation... he could feel that, too. Sam was near-drunk on his emotions, and Paul was having such trouble concentrating he wondered how Sam was even making sense with everything that was swirling through his head. Sam was still talking. He wasn't even sure he was making sense anymore. The memory of waking up half-drugged and peering into Paul's bedroom kept surfacing as he tried to push the idea that this was the only way to get his brother back to the front of his mind. He had tried to forget what he saw. When he couldn't, he spent a good deal of time trying to convince himself that it was the drugs. Or a dream. But hearing the thinly veiled panic on the other end just confirmed that Sam hadn't been that out of it that night. Quiet resignation finally settled in, and Sam stopped talking. Paul took a moment to drink it all in. Helping Dean would require speaking to him, something he had not done since the Winchesters left Boston. There were still things left unresolved, and Paul was not sure if throwing that door wide open fell on the side of Helping Dean, but Sam's insistence that it was the right thing to do was overpowering. Those Winchesters certainly were easy to read. He had to trust Sam's judgment because, he thought perhaps a little jealously, if anyone knew Dean Winchester, it was Sam. He sighed. "Sam, I can't make any promises, but the least I could do is call him. We have a rapport, and perhaps he will confide something to me," he said, not knowing if talking would be enough if the feelings hitting his mind like that train did his car were, in fact, Dean's. Sam, while still not comfortable with what he was accepting by making this call, thanked Paul, asked him to please call if he learned something Paul thought Sam should know, and said goodbye. He prayed this would work. He needed Dean back at full-strength. He needed his brother. Quickly. And if indeed Dean was brooding over Paul (the fleeting image of Dean as Sam saw him through the crack in Paul's door made him stumble slightly), he hoped this would snap him out of it. Sam closed his eyes, rubbed at his forehead with the heels of his hand, and, cursing Dean for forbidding him the Impala, continued walking toward the Pinellas library. Dean or no Dean, there was work to do and articles with the names of the passengers on a bus to research. Paul's heart beat faster as he sped the final blocks to his apartment. It wasn't as if he hadn't sat and thought up excuses to dial Dean's number. He never came up with anything that didn't make him sound like a fifteen-year-old girl, though, and now he actually had a reason. He concentrated hard. He reached out and felt for Dean. A sad longing bit at him... he could sense it so strongly now. The connection was powerful... overwhelming... it stayed with him as he raced up the stairs and bolted through his apartment door, banging his head on the door frame as he skidded a little from the speed at which he entered the room. Right, he thought. That's it. The trepidation bled from his body and was replaced by conviction. Dean needed his help. Paul looked for a place to throw down the heavy load of take-home research Keel insisted he take. He looked at the coffee table, but ultimately and wisely decided to place it instead on the floor beside him. Paul sat down, and, taking a deep breath, dialed Dean's number. Dean was still frozen after three rings. His upstairs brain finally took over and told him to answer the damned thing. Sucking in his breath, he answered the call. "Dean?" God, thought Dean. His voice... calling Dean's name. He never really stood a chance of losing that erection any time soon anyway, even if Paul's voice was not full of desperate pleading and was instead filled with... concern? "Paul?" Dean's voice trembled slightly as he mulled over the coincidence of Paul calling right then. "Dean... how are you? And please... tell me the truth." Dean knew better than to lie to an empath. "Not good, Paul, but I guess you already know that, right?" Paul's eyebrows raised as he stifled a half-hearted laugh at that understatement. "I have an idea," he said, trying very hard to ignore Dean's growing arousal that was intoxicating the both of them. Even as a card-carrying member of the Society of Red Blooded Males, Paul was amazed at how often and easily sexual feelings came to Dean, and how, even with all the emotions bogging Dean down, Dean's arousal was beginning to bowl over every one, one at a time. It was distracting to Paul, to say the least. He did not know how Dean functioned like this. He fought to continue with the task at hand. "Dean," he continued. "You can't lie to me, so I will not lie to you," except for the whole Sam knowing part, he didn't say. "That's only fair," smirked Dean, who would be a bit more put off than he was about dealing intimately with yet another person with abilities far beyond his own if he weren't so fucking turned on. "Dean, I can feel you. Your pain and your apathy and your..." he paused. "Dean, I can feel it all. I have been feeling you for a while, and I just now realized these weren't entirely my feelings. Your feelings... my connection to you... it's so strong. You are overwhelming me. It's killing me to know this. I need to help you. Please. Let me. For both our sakes." Dean was silent. If Paul had been unwillingly tapping into his emotions... he knew. A lot. More than Dean was willing to admit even to himself. His thoughts since Boston were consumed by Paul. He prayed that Paul wasn't offering to help Dean move on, but one phrase kept repeating in his mind: "...weren't entirely my feelings." Had Paul been feeling the same way? His hope gave him reason to speak. "You've had these feelings, too?" He choked the words out. "If they are not entirely mine, then you have had them, too?" Whoops, thought Paul. He knew that had been the wrong thing to say. Dean could probably sense that Paul was very turned on also, but he didn't want to distract Dean any further by shoving his feelings in the middle of everything in Dean's head. Not that anything Dean said wasn't true, though. Trying very hard to ignore his own growing arousal this time (God! Dean's voice... the longing...), Paul prayed that the next words out of his mouth were at least in English. "I--I--have. How could I not? And before you ask, yes, they are my feelings. But, Dean, I'm calling because I am concerned... for you... your safety. You are distracted and you can't afford to be distracted. I want to help you. Please let me." I know exactly how you could help, too, thought Dean. I'm going to ignore that, thought Paul. He felt Dean grow even more needy at his remark. It wasn't helping Paul a bit, feeling that come from Dean. "Dean, we never really spoke after you left Boston. We haven't really resolved anything. It can't be healthy, right? I mean, look at you. Look at me! You call us badasses?" Dean had to smile at that. He took a drink of his coffee and noticed it seemed to have more flavor than it did not ten minutes before. "Yeah, we are a mess, aren't we?" He felt a chill run up his spine just using "we" referring to the two of them. "Paul, I don't know what to say here. Sorry, I guess. I know my work has been suffering lately. I have been a downright moody little bitch to Sammy. Nothing has given me much joy lately. I never meant for my feelings to affect you this way... I never thought of the connection and how it might affect you. I hope things aren't as bad for you as they have been for me." Paul knew that Dean would rather die than cause anyone undue stress or harm. He had seen it with Sam. Dean's concern for Paul was touching. Paul knew he needed to step in there. "Dean! It's OK. God, it's OK!" "It is?" Dean asked quietly. "Sometimes I need to..." Damn! Why was he trailing off? It's not like he didn't know how Dean felt! There was no need to feel shy around him, especially with all they shared. Come on, Paul! Say it! "Sometimes you need to what, Paul?" Say it, pleaded Dean in his own head. Please. I need to hear it. Please! Paul could feel himself slipping... the connection was so strong he swore he could almost smell Dean. A warm feeling washed over him. He closed his eyes and, in that instant, he felt so with Dean he was dizzy. This was not his intent with this phone call. He wanted to calm Dean down. He wanted to focus him... Oh, he was focused alright... just not on what he was supposed to be focused. Paul felt enchanted. Fleeting thoughts of Sam's phone call were quickly drowned by thoughts of stolen kisses and that absolutely evil thing Dean could do with his hips. All of these thoughts took place within a split second, which fully explained the next sentence that escaped Paul's lips. "Sometimes I--I just need to get fucked... by you." Well. It was out there now, wasn't it? "No. Not sometimes. Mostly all the time. Right now, in fact. God! Dean! If you were here right now... Fuck! I don't even know where you are! But, if you were here now... Shit, can you be here? Are you close?" Paul realized a little too late that maybe he had said all of that out loud. Were Dean anyone else but Dean he might have blushed. Instead, he blew out his breath and managed to choke out, "I'm in Florida." He was suddenly very aware of those thousand people still milling about. He was also very aware of the ever-growing problem in his jeans. Thanking all manner of deity that it was cold, he pulled his jacket tighter around him. "Florida?" Dean could hear the disappointment. "Are you on a job?" Dean tried briefly to explain what was happening with the Greyhound before ultimately giving up and deciding it didn't matter why they were there. It just mattered that they were there and not minutes from Paul. Paul was disappointed. Anywhere in New England would have been good, but Florida? The two men sat silent for a moment. The funk was returning. The joy at hearing the others' voice was not enough to make up for the distance between them. Uncharacteristically, it was Dean who broke the silence. "You would what?" "Hmmm?" mused Paul, not quite out of his haze. "You would what if I were there?" Paul smiled. Leave it to Dean to still be thinking about sex. Well, it's out there. Might as well. This just might be the thing Dean needs. Could he really do this? His desire to help Dean mixed with his own desire to be with Dean and topped with this very urgent need from Dean practically slapping Paul in the face (plus a little subconscious help from Dean, he surmised) gave him the courage to say something he didn't think he was capable of saying: "Well... I would finish that blowjob, for one. I think my mouth on your cock would be just the thing for both of us. I seem to recall you liking it a great deal... I will never forget those little moans... I could come just listening to them... even right now on the phone." Shit! Gonna need a bigger jacket, thought Dean. Stifling a moan, he closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple with his free hand. Was this going where he thought it was? Right here in public? "Paul, wait... this... umm... I can't. Do this... I mean... I want to... God! I want to... If I am thinking correctly... and I really hope I am... but I can't. Here. Right now. You know?" Paul did not confirm Dean's suspicions about where the conversation was headed. He simply said, "When can you be alone?" Dean mentally gauged the distance between the park and the motel, hoping that wherever Sammy was, he was going to be there for a while. "Ten minutes?" "Call me back?" "Definitely!" Dean stuffed his phone back in his jeans pocket, adjusted his jacket as he stood, and, wishing he could run, but not wanting to arouse suspicion from any local cops or nosy retirees who think all young men running in anything other than jogging clothes are criminals, he broke into the junior high walk/run: The fast walk one does when one cannot be late to class, but is not allowed to run in the halls. He was relieved to find the room still empty. Sammy was probably laying down a little Sam-Fu at the library or the newspaper... and Sammy in research mode could take him away for a long time. Especially if he were escaping Dean's mood (Dean cringed at the thought of just how moody he had been around Sammy lately). He threw himself on the bed and dialed Paul's number. Paul had been waiting patiently on his couch. This was his first free moment since he realized he had been feeling Dean, and he took advantage of the time until he called to bask in the feeling of Dean that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He rubbed his still-sore head absently as he sank deeper into the sensation. The ringing phone startled him. "I am completely alone, and I believe you were promising me something before we hung up. Something about that innocent mouth of yours and what it's going to do to me next time I roll into town." Wow. Dean was good. But Paul was not about to let him have the upperhand this time. "Innocent? I don't recall my mouth being so innocent when it was completely engulfing your cock. Or do you not remember looking down at me as my head was in your lap? Do you not remember calling my name out as I took all of you in that 'innocent' mouth of mine? Do you need a reminder of just how dirty my mouth can be?" Wow. This may be over waaay too soon, thought Dean. This empathic connection had him feeling twice the arousal and even the slightest hint of dirty talk was threatening to send him over the edge. But what a way to go. Dean was moved to speak at that moment, but Paul was not quite finished. "Dean, you are going to do something for me. Right now. You are going to take off your clothes. Start with your socks and shoes. Then your shirt. Then your jeans. Then those hot boxer briefs I know you are wearing. In that order." Dean's best response was to simply do as he was told. Anything else might have come out in Latin. He sat up and removed both shoes and his socks and placed them on the floor. He then removed his shirt and shivered a bit at the chill in the air. His hand reached for the zipper of his jeans and he pressed down a bit as he unzipped so he could feel the pressure of it against his cock. He was down to his boxers. He could feel the fabric slide over his hips and the air hit his skin as he removed them slowly. He was naked. He wished he weren't naked alone. "Are you done?" "Completely," he said seductively. "Good," purred Paul. "Now that I have you naked, I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do with a naked you. Give me some ideas for next time we are together." Oh, yeah. Not long at all. Dean breathed faster. His skin was already starting to flush. His free hand started to roam and it was all too easy to imagine that it was Paul's hand. Especially since he could almost feel Paul in the room with him. "Fuck, Paul! I want your mouth on me! I want to look down and see you looking up at me with those little strands of hair in your eyes, and I want to brush them away. Then I want to rub my fingers through your hair as I guide your head and your mouth exactly where I want it." "Where are my hands, Dean?" Dean closed his eyes. "On my hips. Kneading them." "I do love those hips. You do this... thing with them. It's downright dirty, but, damn, it feels good!" Paul paused for a moment out of respect for Dean's hips. Then, "Go on. Do I get to finish this time? Do you come for me? Do I finally get to taste you?" He could hear shallow breaths and the most delicious moans on the other end, but he didn't need to hear them to know Dean was already teetering on the edge. Paul was enjoying every minute of this Dean torture. Dean, to his credit, was trying very hard to keep it together. "Yeah, you get to finish. I am going to come in your mouth so you can taste me. And I am not going to let go of your head until I am done." His wandering hand had already found its target and the sensation was making it very hard to speak. His words were broken and punctuated by little gasps that were rapidly sending Paul to the same place Dean was heading. Knowing that speech was more and more difficult for Dean just spurred Paul on. He spoke as he started removing his own clothes. He wasn't going to let Dean have all the fun here. "What about me? How are you going to make me come? I mean, after all that... I am definitely going to need a release." Sososososososoclose. "I want you to fuck me! Hard!" "Fuck you? You want me to throw you across the bed and ram my cock in you? Is that what you want me to do?" Dean stroked himself harder and faster. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He moaned louder... words Paul couldn't understand... words he wasn't meant to understand. "You want me to grab your hips and shove it in as far as it will go? You want bite marks on your shoulders from when I am trying not to come?" They both knew Dean wouldn't last another minute. Dean's back arched higher and higher. "Scratches on your hips where I dig my fingers into you when I finally do come? You want the sound of me yelling out your name in your ears? Is that what you want?" There might have been a "yes" in there. Hell, there might have been an incantation or even a shopping list in there, but all Paul could understand was the very definite sound of Dean exploding. He moaned so loudly Paul was sure Mrs. Bongiovi next door could hear it. Dean could not hold back any longer. He nearly screamed as he came and his vision went white. What little concentration he had left was focused on what seemed to be moans coming from the other end. Paul was surprised to say the least when he came not seconds later. He was mostly naked at that point, but his own hands had not even begun to roam. That was... different. Dean was damn near close to hyperventilating at that point and struggled to calm his breathing. Hearing Paul come. Wow. Not the best for calming down, but absolutely the best for everything else. Silence. Paul recovered first. "Are you with me?" "Oh, yeah. You dirty little bastard. You didn't tell me you were going to come, too." "I didn't know! It just... happened. When you were... Oh, God, that was amazing! I love hearing you... hearing you come." Paul ducked his head a bit sheepishly. A little too sheepishly, considering what he had just done that was infinitely worse than what he had just said. "Are you going to do all those things? When we are together again?" "If it will make you come like that again. Do you feel better?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Uh-huh. Loads. Paul, thanks. Thanks for doing this. I almost feel human again." "You needed this... well, you need real sex... but this was all I could give you right now. I promise to give you the real thing next time we are near each other." Paul could feel Dean's relief. He could also feel a twinge of arousal. My God. Does he ever not think about sex? The two conceded that they both needed showers and to get back to work. "Paul, I just cannot thank you enough..." "You can thank me next time we are together," Paul said with a knowing smile. "Paul..." "Dean..." What the two men didn't say spoke volumes. "Goodbye, Paul. Please, for God's sake, feel free to call any damned time you please." Paul chuckled. "Goodbye, Dean." Dean, still woozy, stood up and headed for the bathroom to take his second shower of the day. He let the water pound him at full force as he basked in the afterglow. After a good shower and some clean clothes, Dean felt ready to face whatever the spirit world could throw at him. He felt alive for the first time in weeks. He decided to commemorate the occasion with one of his favorite pastimes. It was like this Sam found Dean as he returned to the motel room. Sam opened the door with some hesitancy, but was soon overjoyed at the scene laid out before him. Dean was loading up some guns with rock salt. He looked at his brother and burst into a goofy grin. "Let's go waste something, Sammy." Sam exhaled a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. He grinned back. "Now you're talking, Dean! The Greyhound appears some random time after dark... it's never the same." "Dark? Alright, if we shag ass we can get there by sunset!" Dean was already running to the Impala with guns in hand. "Did you find out who could be behind this? Jealous lover? Jealous EX-lover? And what the hell do you think you are doing, Sammy? Get your lanky ass away from the driver's side of my car! And, little fucker, you owe me an Iron Maiden tape, so you had better use that Sam-Fu on eBay to find me one or I am going to kick your ass off that bridge myself!" Sam smiled. He relayed all the information he had learned and he silently thanked Paul for whatever he had done to bring his brother back as he whipped around to the passenger side. He didn't care now what he had done. Dean was back. And they had a poltergeist to waste. Back to Miracles Stories or Back to Brokeback Mothman |